


You Scratch My Back

by Katzedecimal



Series: Touched [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romantic Friendship, Touch-Starved, psychosomatic, wooly jumpers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are downsides to wooly jumpers.  Or maybe it's an upside?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Scratch My Back

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, a nod to T.S. Eliot. And I'll apologise right here for any psychosomatic sympathy reactions your body may give you while reading this. Just imagine what it was like for me, _writing_ it :3

A foggy night in London. It wasn't one of those poetic ones, where the mist creeps about on little cat feet, rubbing its yellow back against the window panes, curling about the house and falling asleep - Noooo, it was one of those clammy, soggy, foggy ones, where the fog reduced the street lamps to pale spheres of light with dense shadow between. It both amplified and deadened sound, so that everything sounded strangely hollow and close by, no matter how far away it actually was. The damp amplified the cold, seeping into the bricks of 221b Baker Street, defeating the warmth in the room and seeping through the oatmeal jumper into the bones of one Doctor John H. Watson. He felt his skin shiver and raise goose bumps in reaction, and squirmed against his chair.

His flatmate was, as usual, lying full length on the couch, his fingers tented beneath his chin. His eyes were closed but John knew that he was listening to the sounds carried by the fog, and so he'd turned the telly down to a soft murmur. 

The problem with goosebumps under a wool jumper is that they itch. And they **always** choose to itch on your back. John squirmed again, trying to rub the itchy spots against the back of his chair but they just ran around, like ants. Why do itchy spots behave like ants? Why did he have to think of **ants** as a metaphor? Now he had a feeling like ants running across his back underneath his jumper. _Great, just great..._ he thought. Squirming was only chasing them around so he reached back, trying to scratch through his jumper then underneath it, but he couldn't reach. And his bad shoulder wouldn't allow his other arm either high enough or back enough.

"Oh come here," a voice huffed. Sherlock was sitting up with an expression that looked like a mix of mild annoyance and amusement. He set his feet apart on the floor and patted the space between them. "Pull your jumper off."

John did, then got up to sit on the floor in front of Sherlock. "It's always right between the bottom of the shoulder blades, ennit," he sighed, "Right where you need to be a rubber-band boy to reach." 

"And your shirt."

"Sherlock, it's cold in here."

"How else am I supposed to scratch your back? If you keep your shirt on, it'll just chase the itch around."

John sighed, knowing his flatmate was right. He pulled off his shirt and felt his skin immediately react to the chilly air, rising into sharp goosebumps and contracting his nipples to tight points. Then he felt Sherlock's fingers touch his skin and he shivered again. 

He started by brushing his palms over John's back, warming the skin and settling the nerve endings. Then he began to scritch his fingernails lightly, circling. John sighed as he felt the warmth of Sherlock's hands, then squirmed again as the itches started to move around from one spot on his back to another, always just out of reach of Sherlock's fingernails. 

Sherlock started to rake his nails more firmly, up and down John's back. Then he passed over the itchiest spot, right between the shoulder blades, and John groaned, "Yeah, right in there." He hunched his shoulders forward, rounding his back, opening the area for total itch annihilation. Sherlock smiled, maintaining the pressure and pace as John continued to voice his approval. Soon John started to squirm again, this time moving his body to bring the itchy spots under Sherlock's fingers, where they were duly scratched. "God, you are really good with your fingers," he moaned.

Sherlock smirked, pausing for just a moment, "So I've been told."

John's brain caught up to him and he blushed. "Ah... I meant..."

"I know what you meant," Sherlock chuckled. John wasn't sure whether he shivered from the chill, from the scritching fingernails or from the low richness of Sherlock's voice.

Sherlock was taking a quiet enjoyment in feeling the texture of John's skin, watching the pattern of red lines rising against the pale flesh. Creamy, with a golden undertone, like antique ivory. His fingers traced around the details of moles and birthmarks, cataloguing them and searching for patterns, constellations marking John's flesh. He traced one mole, slightly different from the others, and made a mental note. 

"Something wrong?"

"Mmm," Sherlock rumbled, "Got one here for the watch list."

"Really?" John tried to look over his shoulder but his wound prevented him from turning that far. Sherlock snapped a picture on his phone, along with some comparitors, then passed it down to John. "Ah, right. Well spotted."

"Yes, rather reminds me of a leopard," Sherlock teased, "Or possibly a star map."

"A star map? On my back?"

"Yes. This is almost certainly Cassiopia, here," Sherlock traced imaginary lines between moles and smiled as John shivered again, "And here, the square of Pegasus. We could use your back as a planetarium, John." John laughed, making the stars shake in their ivory sky. 

Sherlock smoothed his palms over John's skin, soothing the redness and chasing away the last of the itches. John's skin was soft and warm, pliant over a layer of firm muscle that was once hard but had softened after his discharge from the army. The chill brought another wave of goose bumps rising up and Sherlock rubbed his hands to warm them and smoothed them down. Then he reached for his blanket and wrapped it around John.

John looked up at him. Sherlock had wrapped him in his blanket, his own personal blanket. John found himself wishing he would wrap him up and never let him go. The itches of his back were gone but there was another itch that was becoming really, really bothersome. Sherlock still hadn't let go of the blanket and John felt himself tugging lightly, drawing the other man ever so slowly down. Then he glanced up suddenly and shoved Sherlock back. 

Sherlock's expression was something John would take to his grave, but changed instantly to comprehension as movement caught his eye and he saw the rather large spider abseilling from the ceiling, almost in front of his nose. John swung a take-away container underneath it as Sherlock cut the line, dropping it in then clapping a lid onto it. They shared a look of comical horror when they heard it scrabbling around inside. "I'll get rid of it. You stay put," Sherlock said, getting up and stepping over the coffee table towards the door. 

John leaned back against the couch and tugged the blanket - Sherlock's blanket - tighter, feeling cold now from more than just the air. He couldn't forget how hurt Sherlock had looked, when John had pushed him away.


End file.
